I live
Not quite soundly
But not quite outside sound,
Somewhere inside
The boundaries of an echo.


I wake
The day after the weekend
But before the week.
Somewhere stuck
Like shuffling feet in a corner.


I write
As if by design
To pass time, to pass notes concealed
From one hand to the other
Around my back, and repeat.


I cry
In word, inward
Til the tears that drop
Permeate the soles of my feet
And finally I slip.


The pain of remembering
I'm still real.




View grahf's Full Portfolio